May the Odds Ever Be in His Favor
by Enaid Mora
Summary: John Watson watched the Hunger Games tear his sister apart. Sherlock Holmes is bored and wants to see if he can beat the man behind the arena, Moriarty. When they compete together in the 74th annual games their worlds and lives are changed forever.


**AN: Hello. This is a crossover between Sherlock/The Hunger Games (Sherlock characters in the basic plot set up of the Hunger Games). ****I have changed things to fit a little. I don't know how regularly I'll be updating this but I hope you enjoy it. ****Let me know what you think. Also, sorry for shifting tenses and grammar errors. This is dedicated to Kylie and Andrei. You guys are amazing.**

**Warning: Violence in later chapters, Johnlock in later chapter, Harry's drinking habits.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or the Hunger Games. This is written purely for entertainment purposes.**

John woke up when he heard the crash. The sound of glass hitting the wall of the house was unmistakable. He opened in eyes and surveyed the room in the cold dawn light. His sister's bed was empty and the dog lay whimpering beneath it.

Gladstone was a ugly dog with a tattered ear and a rotund figure. His parents had given John him when Harriet was chosen as the female tribute from District 7. Harriet was eighteen and already strong willed. He remembered how she always used to say "Harry, not Harriet. I'm not old," with a laugh and a smile. John was ten and loved his older sister more than anything. Everyone thought she was going to die and his parents thought the best way to placate him was to give him a puppy no one else had wanted. He remembered watching as his sister fought her way through the games, her normally cheerful eyes blank and stony, her mouth in a grim line.

The Hunger Games were a way of keeping all the Districts in line. There was a unsuccessful uprising years ago but it was enough to instill a fear of the power of citizens in the Capitol. The Districts needed to be punished and kept in line. Two tributes were selected from each district, one girl and one boy in between the ages of twelve and eighteen, and these tributes were sent to the Capitol where they would train and prepare for the Games for a week before going into the arena. In the arena they would fight to the death in the hopes of keeping their lives and winning food and glory.

There was girl who competed with his sister that Harry had befriended. They fought side by side until the end up the girl died with Harry's blade between her shoulders. The shocked look on the girl's face still haunted John's dreams as did the look his sister had on her face when she stared at the corpse. He had never see someone look so haunted and full of self-loathing. When she got off the train and was hailed as champion she couldn't even look him in the eye. There was something broken about her. The first two months she was back she flitted from room to room in the family house. Her screams woke him in the middle of the night. One night she woke up screaming a name. Clara. John stood in her doorway, a mug of tea in his hands.

"Do I look like a monster?" she had asked, tears running down her face, her hands knotted in her sweaty sheets.

"You are not a monster," was his firm reply.

She laughed a humorless laugh and grabbed the mug from his hands, staring into it. "Sometimes I don't even recognize myself anymore. Clara said she wanted to die like she lived in life. She didn't want the games to destroy her." Her watery brown eyes made contact with John's steady blue gaze. "When I realized it was me and her left I knew I had to be the one to kill her. I didn't want her to live with my blood on her hands."

"Harry-" John began.

"No!" she had screamed, throwing the mug against the wall, shattering it and sending shards bouncing across the floor. "You know they congratulated me after I won? Said I must be proud. Like her life meant nothing. Nothing! You don't get to placate me, tell me how brave and strong I am. You don't get to tell me how I am hero for our district or whatever lie the Capitol feeds you. I am a monster. I loved her and when she turned to look up at the image of the fallen tribute I shoved my blade through her back. The last thing she saw was the image of a dead man's face and the stars. She always said she loved the stars."

John had stood there in silence, frozen there by his sister's words. John felt his throat tighten. He had watched the light leave Clara's eyes and the joy leave Harry's. He remembered Harry pale and shaking, standing in the train saying goodbye to her family for what she thought was the last time. He had seen every grisly kill of that year's game. He had watched his sister fall in love with a pretty girl from District 4 and then watched his sister kill her. He remembered the way Harry stared vacantly at the corpse, her entire posture screaming defeat while the crowds cheered victory. He had watched the sister he knew slip away slowly until all that was left was a shell full of rage and anguish.

"Harry, you are not a monster. You did what you had to."

"What I had to? What do you know about what I had to do? I could have let the bloke from District 2 end me right at the beginning instead of running into the woods. I could have let Clara kill me instead of taking her from this world!" she screamed, her eyes blazing and sharper than they had been for weeks.

"No, you couldn't have! You did what you had to do to protect her!" John yelled back.

"Protect her? I killed her, John! I stabbed my sword through her back and pushed it all the way through until the hilt lay flat against her! I felt her life blood drip onto my hand! I saw the light in her eyes go out! And it went out because of me!" She began to sob, her face twisted in grief and raw pain, her hands clenching tighter in the mussed sheets.

"You did it because you loved her. You wanted to save her from the guilt," John said as he lay his hand on top of one of hers.

She jerked her hand back like his was on fire. "Leave, John," she replied brokenly, refusing to look him in the face

"But Harry-" he said, taking a step closer.

"I said leave!"

John had backed away from her bed and lingered at her door for a moment before walking out of her room that night. He never knew if she was able to fall back asleep or if she just sat up in bed until morning, broken sobs wracking her frame. The next morning she stopped wandering about the house like a ghost. She opened their father's liquor cabinet and removed her first bottle of alcohol. When John had walked out of his room she made eye contact with him, lifted the bottle in a salute, and drank deeply.

"May the odds ever be in your favor," she had sneered before stumbling off to her room.

It was obvious it had been another bad night from the moment John awoke. The reaping was today and Harry always drank more around that time. She was the mentor for the district, the adviser to the two terrified tributes. She didn't get to escape the pain the Hunger Games had caused her. She was forced to relive it every year, traveling by train to the Capitol where she had to watch two people she had known for most of her life slaughter and be slaughtered. Every year she came back too drunk to stand. Some years she was laughing like a madman. Most years she was sobbing and moaning "Clara" over and over into John's shoulder. John picked her up every year like clockwork, helping her home and getting her to bed. On the really bad nights he would keep a vigil by her bedside, making sure she didn't choke on her own vomit.

Their father had a terrible accident when Harry was sixteen. He had been secretly training John and Harry survival and rudimentary fighting skills since the time they could walk, hoping to ensure their survival if they were ever selected in the reaping. John was always better than Harry at fighting. But after the accident the training stopped and he could no longer work. The family had needed food so Harry had stepped up and neglected training further on her own. Their father then proceeded to drink enough alcohol to drown a village. When Harry returned from her victory in the Capitol she couldn't keep up, couldn't work, couldn't function. John started to work more. He took a job at the apothecary, making supplements and helping with the patients. The apothecary was necessary for most people were too poor to see the doctor. But if it wasn't for Harry winning the games everyone would have starved in the Watson household.

When Harry was twenty and John was twelve when their father died. His liver stopped functioning and he died slowly and painfully. John had smuggled home medicine too expensive for them to purchase but it didn't seem to help. Harry stayed sober for about a week before returning to the bottle for comfort. She had promised John she would stop drinking as they buried their father.

John had woken up in the middle of the night exactly a week after putting their father in the ground and saw Harry in the living room, an open bottle in one hand and a pin in the other. She had never looked smaller than she did then, curled up on the floor, her brown curls obscuring half her face. "The pin was Clara's. Said it was her good luck charm."

John just stood in the doorway, feeling betrayal wrap its tendrils through the already heavy feeling of despair and loss. She had promised she would stop the drinking. Their mother was barely holding it together and he needed her. She had promised yet there she was, a familiar friend clutched in her hand.

Harry turned to face her brother, a brother whose eyes were already far too old for a boy so young, her own eyes deceptively innocent and young. "I don't need you to judge me, John. I do that enough myself."

"Then why don't you stop?"

"John, you don't understand."

John frowned. "Then make me understand."

Harry's expression closed immediately. "Make you? I can't make you understand anything! I need this!" she cried lifting the bottle off the ground, its contents swishing.

"I need you, Harry. Mum needs you. Please."

She closed her eyes and turned away. "Leave, John."

The nightmares had stared after that. The last shred of John's childhood was nothing more than ashes. It had been drowned in amber alcohol and how easily things burn when they are soaked in alcohol. John would wake up drenched in sweat, the image of Harry running him through with a sword painted on the inside of his eyelids and in all the corners of his mind. His mother had fallen apart, her "champion" daughter drank away their money and her husband buried in the ground. John became the rock, the one who soldiered on and kept the family alive and functioning. Every year he practiced the skills his father had taught him. And every year he was still there for the sister that broke her promises when she came back from the Capitol, missing more pieces than when she left.

He knew this morning would be a bad one before he even left the relative safety of his bed. He hadn't heard his sister collapse in bed last night so that meant she was most likely coming off an all night bender. He just hoped that she would be too tired to put up much a fight or too drunk to be presentable at the reaping ceremony. She didn't need any further insult to her already grievous injuries.

John got out of bed and squared his shoulders before walking into the kitchen to greet the mess that he knew was waiting for him.

"Johnny boy is up!" she cried as he walked into the room. "The golden child has awoken!" Harry was swaying on her feet, a half empty bottle of cheap liquor in her hands. Her eyes were glazed and swollen with purple bruise-like shadows under them. Bottles matching the one currently clasped in her shaking hand lay broken against the kitchen wall, sparkling in the early morning light. "You know that Mum always thought of her two children you'd be the one to win the Hunger Games!" She laughed bitterly and took a swig of the amber liquid. "And every year at the reaping she prays to whatever deity she secretly believes in that you don't get chosen. Even though she knows you'd do better than me."

"Harry, how much have you had to drink this morning?" John asked, taking in his sister's disheveled appearance. She had definitely not slept.

"Does it matter? I'm their bloody champion, the only one this district has had in ages. Plus I am everyone's favorite. I was the pretty one who ruthlessly killed the competition in order to get home to my darling, baby brother." She snorted and took another large gulp. "I am a poster child for the Capitol and all those boot lickers! Mind you their boots are shiny and pink but boots all the same."

"Harry, what you just said-"

She practically cackled. "Was it 'a bit not good', John?" Switching into a baby voice she added, "Brave little Johnny, protecting his poor drunk sister from all those big, mean Peacekeepers." She threw the bottle at wall, sending bits of glass and alcohol flying across the room. "Do you want a fucking medal? Oh, I know! How about the Hunger Games crown? You compete in the Games and then you can tell me what is 'a bit not good'!"

"Harry-"

"Why must you always placate me John? Why I am not allowed to be angry? Only you get to be angry, huh, Johnny boy! Mad at your father for drinking himself for death and leaving us here! Mad at Mum for not fighting to keep me sober! Mad at me for stupid promises and grieving! Mad at the world for forcing you to be an adult! Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad! Why can't I be mad? Why can't I be the angry one?"

"You are angry-"

"You're damn right I'm angry, Johnny boy!" she screamed jabbing her finger at him for emphasis. "And you better accept that!" She stumbled and caught herself on the kitchen table. She looked at it like she was surprised that it was there before glaring at her brother.

"You just have no right-"

She snorted. "I have whatever rights I want!"

"You have no right to be angry at me for trying to save your tongue! If the Peacekeepers heard a word out of your mouth, you'd be taken away and forcefully separated from it! Then where would you be?" John screamed back.

"Is this about your pride? Have I hurt ickle Johnny's poor little feelings? Stupid Harriet, never taking John's sage advice. 'Watch what you say, Harry'. 'That was a bit not good, Harry'. 'Don't drink so much, Harry'. Fuck that." She lurched across the room, grabbing a bottle off the counter. She wrapped her finger around the neck and attempted to open it, her face screwing up in concentration. Her hand was shaking too much to be of any good to her. The bottle refused to open underneath her shaky, drunken fingers. She tried again and failed.

"Dammit!" She launched the bottle at the wall. She then began to cry, cradling her head in her hands as she sank to the floor, sitting in a puddle of booze.

"Harry," John said, softly. She ignored him and continued to whimper. "Harry, please look at me."

She turned her gaze up at her brother, looking like a wounded animal. Her hair hung in limp strands around her face, her lower lip quivering uncontrollably. Her shirt was torn at the shoulder and the collar was slightly undone, her pants were stained and wearing thin.

"Let's get you to bed," he said, gently helping his sister off the floor. She was quivering and cold to the touch as he lead her into the other room. She tripped over her own feet as she tried to lay down on the bed, her arms hanging limply at her sides. Once she had collapsed onto the bed, John pulled the blankets around her, tucking her in. Gladstone appeared from underneath the bed and jumped up next to Harry, laying his misshapen head on her thigh.

As John turned to leave, Harry's hand shot out from under the blanket and wrapped itself around his wrist.

"John, promise me one thing. Promise me you won't get reaped. That they won't call you to be the tribute. Please, John. Promise me," she begged, eyes bright with desperation.

John smiled sadly and tucked a curl behind her ear. "You know I can't promise you that, Harry."

"They can't take you away from me, John. They can't."

"I'll be here when you wake up, Harry. No one is taking me anywhere right now. Now, go to sleep."

Harry nodded and left the tension leave her body, burying her face in the pillow. John gently removed her fingers from around his wrist before heading back towards the kitchen. "Watch over her, Gladstone."

The dog looked at John solemnly, blinked once slowly, before laying his head back down.

John grabbed his clothes and changed in the kitchen, taking off his worn cotton pajamas and replacing them with sturdy cotton pants and a button-down shirt. The doctor had recently taken him on as an apprentice, impressed by his natural nurturing instincts as well as his skill with medicine. The doctor worked out of the apothecary so most days he still worked there. His mother had worked at the apothecary while his father had worked as a builder. Harry had taken over her father's work until she became too drunk to function. Now it was mostly John who kept the family alive, working as much as possible to ensure his family didn't starve and that he didn't have to put in his name to get tessera. When a person reaches the age of twelve his or her name automatically gets entered once into the lottery for the tribute selection. When they are thirteen, it gets entered in twice and continues on until on their eighteenth year it is in the lottery seven times. There is another way to get one's name entered into the lottery and that is in exchange for tessera. Tessera is a meager one year supply supply of grain and oil for a single person. Desperate families traded in names for tessera, some children having their names in the lottery as many as sixty times. John had avoided entering his name in exchange for it at all costs but had to once. The number of times you were entered in the lottery were cumulative so John had his name in the drawing six times. It wasn't a lot in the scheme of things but it was enough to set him on edge. The odds weren't often in his favor.

But the reaping wasn't until this afternoon and he still had work to do. He walked across the town, working his way to the nicer part of the district, where the apothecary was. It was run by a nice older lady everyone called Mrs. Hudson. No one knew really knew what happened to Mr. Hudson but she was called Mrs. Hudson none the less. She was kind woman with short curls who was always there when a person needed her. She was known for the tea she would make. John remembered escaping to her small house behind the apothecary many times shortly after his father died when he was in need of a motherly hug and a shoulder to cry on.

He walked in through the front door of the apothecary and smiled at the familiar scent of herbs and medicine. Mrs. Hudson was dealing with one of the older men of the town.

"Now here are the herbal soothers I recommended. I use them all the time for my hip. They are wonderful and the Peacekeepers won't bother you about them," she added, handing him a bottle before patting him on his hand.

The man handed over his money and left the shop, pocketing his bottle.

"Oh, John. I wasn't expecting you in this morning, with Harry and the reaping," Mrs. Hudson said, coming out from behind the counter to envelop John in a hug. She smelled of violet and sage.

He smiled and returned the hug. "I thought you might need some help here. The Hunger Games is going to halt working for a while so it is best to stock up on everything before they begin."

Mrs. Hudson smiled warmly at him. "You were always such a thoughtful boy. Sarah is already in back, bottling everything. Why don't you go and help her?"

John nodded and headed into the back of the shop where Sarah was already working, pouring contents from a pot on the stove into tiny bottles.

"Hullo, John," she said with a smile, setting the pot down and pulling a strand of her reddish blonde hair behind her ear. She was a pretty fifteen year old with bluegreen eyes and a kind heart. She and John had met when he started working at apothecary five years ago. He had liked her for a while but knew nothing would ever come of it.

"Hello, Sarah," he replied walking over to her. He proceeded to cork the bottles she had already filled and began to label the droughts contained within.

"Are you nervous about the reaping?" she questioned as she resumed filling the tiny glass bottles.

"I always am."

"How's Harry?" she inquired, concern apparent in her tone.

"She didn't sleep much last night. And she already has gone through seven bottles this week."

"I'm so sorry John." Her brow furrowed slightly as she gave him a sympathetic look.

John nodded. Everyone was sorry. Sorry about his father, sorry about his sister, sorry about his mother, sorry about the fact even his dog was ugly. They had begun to assume because everything else was broken he must be broken too.

They continued to fill and label bottles for a few hours in silence.

"Sarah, John, it is time for you to go home and get changed," Mrs. Hudson reminded them, her voice soft.

Sarah put down the bottle she just filled and scampered on home without a word, nerves apparent in her every action. John started carrying the empty pots over the the washing basin when Mrs. Hudson stopped him.

"I'll clean those today, John. Just today, mind you. I'm not your housekeeper." Her voice was thick with emotion.

"Of course not." John patted her on the shoulder before heading home himself.

Everyone in town seemed to be heading home and avoiding the square. The square was already set up for the reaping, the sections roped off for the potential tributes, the stage with the two glass bowls full of names,the podium where the representative for the district would stand and announce the fate of the two unlucky souls. The camera crews were working out the best angles for the televised broadcast.

John shook his head and sped up. He had to be home in time to see to it that Harry was ready to be paraded about like a show pony. He opened the door to see his mother braiding Harry's hair. She was already scrubbed and dresses in a beautiful yet simple green dress.

"John, hurry up and wash up. We don't want to be late," his mother chided, her fingers deftly tying the final ribbon in his sister's hair. John was surprised to see his mother helping Harry get ready and that Harry was being so complacent.

"Because tardiness on the day of you doom is simply unbecoming," Harry said too brightly, obviously mocking the whole affair. She appeared to only be tipsy, the nap she had this morning taking the violent edge off of her drunkenness.

"Harry, don't be so negative."

"I'm sorry, mother. Happy Hunger Games! May your televised and grisly death be beautiful and praiseworthy."

John sighed and headed into the bedroom, changing into his nice pants and red button down shirt. The only time anyone wore nice clothes was on reaping day. Everyone had to look nice just in case they were taken to the Capitol. He really wanted to wear his beige jumper but his mother always insisted it wasn't nice enough. Harry said it made him look like a snuggly person. She thought that was deceptive because he was really made of "steel and rage".

He came out of his room to see Harry sneaking a drink from one of the bottles on the counter. Harry winked at John like he is her co-conspirator, not her keeper. She knew how much he hated it when she drank before the reaping but she knew he wouldn't choose to argue with her about it now. Last time he had tried she started ranting on stage. Luckily, her words were slurred enough that no one seemed to understand them. For as drunk as she got, Harry normally had very good control of her words.

"Off to the square we go!" she cheered and sauntered out the door, awfully steady on her feet for a woman as drunk as she was. John's mother stared after her sadly before following her out of the door, dressed in her nicest blue dress, her greying hair pulled tight in a knot at the back of her head.

John followed his sister and his mother, apprehension sitting heavy in his stomach. Something about today felt bad. He tried to shake off the feeling. He signed in at the table and felt his apprehension grow as he took in the sight of the square. All the potential tributes had to sign in to show they were all accounted for. Most people thought it was a convenient way of keeping track of the population. The square was normally a cheerful place but today it held the air of a deathbed vigil. The bright banners and camera crews perched on the rooftops made the whole place feel sinister and fake. John headed to his spot in the roped off sections, hoping to squash off the feeling of horror creeping up the back of his throat.

The tributes were organized into two groups, girls on one side, boys on the other. The oldest ones stood in the front and the youngest in the back. John joined the group of boys his age, the ones who had already begun working in the fields. He saw his sister standing off to the side of the stage, glaring darkly at the back of Effie's head. Her pink wig seemed garish in comparison to everyone's somber faces.

The Hunger Games were treated as a big celebration with as much forced pomp and circumstance as possible. As Harry would say "All the better to subdue the districts with, John."

Just as the clock struck two the mayor walked out on stage and began to tell the history of Panem and how the Hunger Games came to be. About the Dark Days before the Capitol had control and the evil rebellion that almost left the districts in those dark and broken times. It was the story about the destruction of District 10 and the implementation of the Hunger Games.

The spectators around the perimeter stared at him, no emotion visible on their faces. He read the names of the past winners and welcomed Harry onto the stage. She walked up the stairs, miraculously not stumbling and sits down in the chair they have onstage for her. The last winner had died three years before John was born. The mayor then introduced Effie Trinket. It was time for the drawing to begin.

Effie Trinket walked out on stage, her shiny pink shoes clicking on the wood. She smiled at the somber faces that stared up at her, her face bright and bubbly. "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds ever be in your favor!" Everyone knew she wished she would represent a better district, one whose very recognizable champion didn't show up drunk to every reaping or whose tributes actually lasted more than a week in the Games. She goes on about what a honor it is to compete. John swore he could hear Harry scoff but he can for sure see her eye roll.

"Ladies first," Effie announced, signalling an end to her ridiculous speech. She walked to the left side of the stage and stuck her hand in the bowl, fishing around for a name. With a paper clasped in her hand she walked back to the center of the stage. "Sarah Sawyer," she read into the microphone.

John turned to look at Sarah. She stood frozen in a yellow dress, staring at Effie in shock. Her hair is a long braid down her back, wisps of it sticking out like always. He could see the fear in her eyes and for a moment thought she would collapse. She then began to walk stiffly to the stage, no color in her face. John felt his heart clench. She doesn't have a very good chance of surviving. Her mother weaves cloth and her father works for the mayor. She doesn't know a life of hard labor and her only skills are identifying plant life and caring for the sick. She will break quickly and it pains John.

"Everybody let's give a big round of applause for our newest tribute, the lovely Sarah." There are pockets of applause scattered through the audience. John can barely bring his hands together. The mayor shakes Sarah's hand and Harry looks like she wants to throw up. She stands up and hugs Sarah, more affectionate than she has been with any past tribute. She knows about Sarah and John's friendship. She mutters something that causes Sarah to pale even further and releases the girl. Harry sits heavily in her chair, her eyes searching for John's in the crowd. John meets her gaze and sticks out his chin. He will keep his head up. Just because Sarah was an unlikely name to get selected doesn't mean he is next.

"It's time to choose our boy tribute!" Effie says, walking over to the right side of the stage. Harry's hands tense in her lap as Effie's perfectly manicured hand fishes around inside the bowl for a name. Harry tears her eyes from John and forces herself to look at Effie. Effie selects a name and flashes a grin to the crowd. She walks back to the podium and unfolds the slip of paper. Her face betrays nothing as she reads the name before saying it out loud.

"John Watson."


End file.
